| Mother
Mother is the soft shield against the sting of a leather belt, the nightlight that banishes hideous demons. Mother is the smell of gooey sweet cinnamon rolls, the sound of Saturday morning cartoons filling the living room. Mother is the quilt that looks like a stitched cloth collage, the threadbare pillow that smells of chipped cedar wood. Mother is the aging linen gilded with daisies, the flour snowflakes dusting the cracked linoleum. Mother is the faded ivy wallpaper worn thin, but hanging on, the yellow-tinged photograph bearing her freckles scrunched in mirth. Mother is the print-smudged glass door that lets me see the world as a painting, the hesitant hand that pushes the latch letting loose my brush. |